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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345865">Chicken soup</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicPineapple/pseuds/ToxicPineapple'>ToxicPineapple</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Amamota Week 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Amamota Week, Amamota Week 2020, Convenience Stores, First Meeting, Implied Relationship, It's really not all that violent, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Tending to injuries, descriptions of injuries, injuries, stab wounds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:07:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345865</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicPineapple/pseuds/ToxicPineapple</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He… really needs to restock his pain killers. Amami unlocks the bathroom door and pulls it open, his breathing slightly laboured, only to walk right into a person, nearly stumbling and falling over into their arms.</p><p>It’s… the gas station clerk, the one with the purple eyes. He’s just a bit taller than Amami, with a striking face, high cheekbones, a dorky goatee. It’s a cute dorky goatee, but still, dorky. His hair is tied out of his face in a bun, and his brow is slightly furrowed, and Amami knows he’d slip to the fucking ground if the man wasn’t holding his arms with a surprisingly strong grip, and there are a number of things he could be saying right now to apologise and explain himself, but when he opens his mouth, what ends up coming out is--</p><p>“You… wear AXE Body Spray?”</p><p>---</p><p>In which Amami gets stabbed and passes out, and Momota brings him home.</p><p>---</p><p>Amamota week day three: Travel/Home</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Amami Rantaro/Momota Kaito, Momota Kaito &amp; Ouma Kokichi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Amamota Week 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994860</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Chicken soup</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for amamota week day three! the prompt was travel/home</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Amami manages to incapacitate two out of three of the guys jumping him without even reaching for the pepper spray, which he’s feeling pretty good about right up until pain flares in his side, and he realises the third had a knife.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, that’s fantastic. Amami lets out a grunt, and flips around, reaching for the dude’s wrist; and his grip isn’t as strong as it would be, with the pain, but there’s enough adrenaline coursing through Amami’s veins that he can fight the knife out of the dude’s hand, then turn it around and brain him with the hilt before taking off running, his heart pounding in his throat. If any of them pursue him, he doesn’t notice for a while, hearing nothing but the blood rushing in his ears and his feet slapping against the pavement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rain starts to pour down overhead as Amami comes out to a more busy street corner. He tosses the knife off to the side and hears it clattering against a building before taking off running in the other direction, pressing a hand against his torso as he weaves his way between people, looking for a good escape. In order to get back to his hotel, he’ll need an Uber to the border, and then an Uber back from there, but right now Amami’s priority is getting somewhere safe so that he can look at the stab wound without any threat on his life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stops at a stoplight, and contemplates sprinting across, but there are too many cars for it to be safe. Amami buzzes a little on his feet, trying not to give the pain enough opportunity to really kick in, and glances over his shoulder once or twice, checking that he isn’t being followed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fact that he can’t see the guys who jumped him before doesn’t really mean anything in this instance. They could be hiding somewhere. And Amami doubts they’d just come get him in public. He needs to get somewhere private enough that he can take care of himself, but public enough that they couldn’t hurt him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…Also known as a gas station bathroom. Lucky for Amami, after the light turns green and he runs across, some of the lightheadedness from all the physical activity while losing blood starting to hit him, he comes up to a Chevron, and pushes his way into the convenience store, waving a bloody (oops) hand at the clerk before slipping into the bathroom. Amami has just enough time to see the dude’s purple (pretty purple, lilac colour) eyes widen before he closes and locks the door, slumping against it, letting out a rasping, wheezing cough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Okay. Okay. Okay. Fuck, that hurts like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bitch.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Amami lets his backpack slide onto the tiled floor before he shucks off his top layer, and then the shirt beneath that, then finally peels off his undershirt. It’s white, and stained with blood all the way up to his pectorals, so he just tosses it into the wastebin, coughing again, tasting blood on his tongue as he kneels in front of his backpack.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ugh. This is his least favourite part. Amami’s hands shake as he undoes the zipper and pulls out his first aid kit, staining the white box red with blood from his fingers, fingers trembling over the latch. He pushes himself up and away from the kit after it’s open, walking over to rinse off his hands and wet several paper towels, grunting in pain as he starts carefully cleaning blood from the wound. The towels are a bit sharp where they crinkle, and they mostly smear the blood, rather than mopping it up, which is beyond frustrating, but he does his best, hissing out a couple curse words each time a sharper edge brushes against his injury.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s gotten easier to deal with, especially as far as being able to look at his own injuries-- this is a familiar sight to him by now-- but Amami still doesn’t like it. It’s a stupid fucking delay, and he’ll have to pace himself, which is far from what he wants to be doing right now, while he’s here, in Texas. Every part of him is buzzing. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s on the verge of finding something, because if he wasn’t they wouldn’t have stabbed him like that, wouldn’t have come after him. He’s asking all the right questions of all the right people and he’s never been closer. He doesn’t want to just… rest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he’ll have to, if he wants to stay alive long enough to actually find Maemi. And if Maemi is hurt in some way, still taken by the fucking cartel, then he’s going to have to get his act together and actually save her. No matter how much that ugly, self destructive part of Amami urges him to just keep pushing it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He uses a cloth from his kit and a bottle of saline solution to disinfect his wound, stifling any pained sounds now because that’s ridiculous, and then gets his medical thread and needle, hands shaking as he tries to thread it. It’s fine. It’s fine. He grits his jaw, takes a breath, and then stitches himself up. It’s not the best job, but it’ll do. It’s much better than some of his older, more ugly, more jagged scars.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A low chuckle fights its way out of Amami’s throat. He’s like a patchwork quilt of mistakes, of battle scars from fights he can never seem to win. Amami finishes off the sewing job and then packs gauze around it, then wraps his torso with ace bandages, tossing all the trash and packing everything else up. It hurts to move too much, but he still cleans all the blood and everything else off the surfaces in here, in the interest of not making too much trouble for that pretty clerk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he washes his hands, scrubbing extra hard, watching pink, sudsy water wash down the drain, and turns off the tap, drying his hands and the space with paper towels and tossing them away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Amami pulls an undershirt and a spare jacket out of his backpack and tugs them on, deciding that the two overshirts he discarded before can be saved and packing them away with the first aid kit. Pulling on the backpack hurts more than it reasonably should, and now that the adrenaline from… all of that, is wearing off, Amami can feel his side starting to throb, his head pounding dizzy from blood loss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He… really needs to restock his pain killers. Amami unlocks the bathroom door and pulls it open, his breathing slightly laboured, only to walk right into a person, nearly stumbling and falling over into their arms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s… the gas station clerk, the one with the purple eyes. He’s just a bit taller than Amami, with a striking face, high cheekbones, a dorky goatee. It’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>cute </span>
  </em>
  <span>dorky goatee, but still, dorky. His hair is tied out of his face in a bun, and his brow is slightly furrowed, and Amami knows he’d slip to the fucking ground if the man wasn’t holding his arms with a surprisingly strong grip, and there are a </span>
  <em>
    <span>number </span>
  </em>
  <span>of things he could be saying right now to apologise and explain himself, but when he opens his mouth, what ends up coming out is--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You… wear AXE Body Spray?” His voice comes out weak, breathless, slightly incredulous.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t knock it,” the clerk retorts, at once. “AXE smells great.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Right. That. Sure is an opinion. Amami tries to stand himself up a little, not least of all because he’s already lightheaded and the clerk’s “good smelling” body spray isn’t helping matters much. To the guy’s credit, he helps Amami back up, leaning him against the wall, and as Amami gets himself up proper, he looks at the guy’s nametag.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…Oh, huh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have a Japanese name,” Amami utters, his eyes half-lidded, breaths coming out shallow. This behaviour is going to invite questions, which Amami realises, and that’ll be a massive inconvenience at some point here, especially considering his current situation, but he doesn’t have enough brain or limb power at his disposal right now to act any different. He swallows. “Are you Japanese?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That I am,” the clerk-- Momota, his nametag says Momota-- says, his brow furrowing. “Born there, actually, only here for University.” Ah, so he’s around Amami’s age… that’s nice. “You too, huh? You have an accent.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Amami chuckles a little. Usually he tries to hide it. Not that any amount of good English can disguise the fact that he’s Japanese, but he’ll get taken more seriously in foreign places if he can speak English to the standards of native speakers. At least, that’s what he’s found. People are so… covertly racist, it’s a lot. “Sorry, that’s… I’m not paying that much attention to my speaking right now, haha.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t gotta apologise,” Momota frowns, and then he switches over to Japanese, saying, “It’s not like I’m gonna judge you, y’know. It’s been a while since I’ve heard Japanese from anyone but my…” his voice trails off, his lips pursing like he doesn’t know the appropriate word, “roommate, for like… a year, by now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If he’s been here for University for a year, then he’s likely around nineteen… unless he’s pursuing some sort of secondary college education, which is possible… Amami isn’t really sure what part of Texas they’re in right now, but the man has little star studs in his ears, so he must be here for the space program… JAXA is just fine, of course, but NASA is infamous and if you can study with them, you probably should…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is quite the level of conjecture to make about a man he’s only just stumbled into, though. Amami coughs lightly, tasting more blood on the roof of his mouth, mumbling a curse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry for uh,” Amami gestures, blinking, disoriented. “Bumping into you, and all. Probably sort of rude.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To be honest,” and Momota scratches the back of his head, “I was coming over to check on you. Bit worried, y’know, like, I know I’m a stranger, but I really thought I saw blood on your hand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that?” Amami chuckles. “It, uh…” this is the part where Amami should really be making a break for it. Or at least lying convincingly. The pain is a constant, incessant distraction, though, and Amami can feel his heart pounding in his face. “It’s nothing to worry about, man, I just,” he gestures a little, with the hand that’s not being used to hold himself up on the wall. “Cut my hand, y’know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Momota snorts, derisive. “You can barely stand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Amami insists, and then because he should, he pushes himself up, moving past Momota, forcing himself to walk over towards the door. (He hears the man following, but chooses to keep walking, his eyes facing determinedly forward. “I just need to call an Uber and get home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should go to a hospital,” Momota’s frown colours his tone, even though Amami can’t see his face, and it stops him, just for a moment. “You really don’t look okay, man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Amami shakes his head. “I can’t do a hospital. Not an option.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because Amami doesn’t want his father to know about this. Wouldn’t want his step mothers to say anything about him stopping. Wouldn’t want the nurses to give him those sad, pitying glances as they take care of him. Doesn’t want people to worry, doesn’t want to be perceived. Momota’s concern right now is bad enough; his eyes are almost boring a hole into Amami’s back. It’s a thick, oppressive feeling, and he can’t bear it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have health care,” Amami says.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Momota says something else, an objection, but Amami is already moving, the blood rushing in his ears, and his surroundings go fuzzy, and the last thing he really registers is the cold metal of the door handle before the ground comes rushing towards him, and then he doesn’t see anything at all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s something cool on Amami’s forehead. Cool and wet. It’s soothing, and he finds himself humming a little. He’s lying down, his eyes closed, a gentle yellow light threatening to break through his eyelids, but it doesn’t quite penetrate. The surface that he’s lying on is… soft, gentle underneath his back. He’s fond of it, actually. More comfortable than the bed back at home. Besides, the lights back there are all much to bright. This one is unobtrusive. Soothing, even.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>…Unfamiliar. Amami feels his heart do a little flip in his chest, breathing in slowly, steadily. The pain in his side is still a constant throb, but the area feels oddly clean against his skin. He can smell AXE body spray, and sugar, and beneath all of that the smell of chicken soup is wafting from… somewhere. Amami can’t remember the last time he had chicken soup. He doesn’t dare get nostalgic, though, just on account of the fact that… he has no idea where he is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Amami listens, he can hear a low murmur of voices. One of them is gruff, familiar, the lilting baritone of Momota Kaito from the convenience store. He must have taken Amami somewhere, but from the cushions against his arm and the general home-y smells, Amami is likely in a house or something, not the hospital. It’s… a weird reaction to an emergency, considering that… well, considering that Momota doesn’t even know who Amami is, among other things. What, is it because they’re both Japanese? Amami doesn’t think that sounds very likely, but… maybe Momota is lonely? He mentioned having a roommate though…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Speaking of, the other voice that Amami hears is higher, more of a tenor, lilting more dramatically than Momota’s but not necessarily more often. Based on the hushed urgency of their voices, they must be having some kind of argument. Momota’s raises more than his companion’s does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ghhhh. Amami needs to figure out what the hell is happening, here. He forces his eyes to open, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, registering a dark couch with a knit blanket draped over his legs, a coffee table next to him with a laptop and several dirty mugs and dishes stacked on top, an electric fire place, a clown mask over the mantle, and a yellow light off on his left, overlooking what must be the kitchen. As Amami sits himself up, the towel slipping from his forehead, pain flares in his side, and a groan escapes him involuntarily, and the voices stop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost immediately, a man pops up in front of Amami, laying a gentle pressure on his shoulder to get him to lie back down, smiling coyly. “Calm down, Amami-chan, you’re freshly stabbed,” the man says, in Japanese, which Amami is about to accept before he realises that he doesn’t know who this is, at which point he sits himself back up in a bit of a rush. A stupid move, all things considered. It causes another spike of pain through his side, and he hisses, allowing the stranger to lie him back down again this time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How do you know my name?” Amami asks, his voice slightly strained. He doesn’t bother questioning the honourific. This man’s violet eyes are wide and childish. It’s not so unexpected. “I don’t think I remember telling it to Momota-san before…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh! Rude,” the man scoffs, pouting a little and folding his arms across his chest once Amami is lying down. “You don’t remember me? But we were so in love!” His eyes well with tears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Amami blinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okayy, geez, injured people are no fun,” he sighs. “You’re not exactly some obscure figure, y’know. A quick Google search told me what I needed to refresh my memory on.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ahhh. Okay. That isn’t Amami’s favourite, but it’s a reasonable enough explanation that Amami will not assume that Momota’s roommate is stalking him. For the moment. “Right, and, the,” Amami releases a breath, irritated by how exerted he is from the small movements, “the freshly stabbed bits?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I did you the favour of redoing your bandages and stuff, that was a suuuper shitty job you did with the stitching, y’know,” the man twirls a strand of hair around his finger. “You really could’a just let Momota-chan take you to the hospital, since that was totally a lie about the health care.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have American health care,” Amami points out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Momota’s roommate purses his lips. “Yeahhh, but using a technical truth as an excuse where it wouldn’t hold is still lying, I think. Even if you do have a super duper good and reasonable reason for why you </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t wanna go to the hospital.” He giggles. “Anyways! My name’s Ouma Kokichi, and I’m Momota-chan’s lover!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not lovers!” Momota’s voice protests from the kitchen. Amami hears something metal clanging against what sounds like a pot. “Ouma just likes embellishing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huuuuh?” Ouma’s eyes well with tears. “Then… when Momota-chan kissed me last night, it meant… nothing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t kiss you last night,” Momota grumbles, sounding as though he’s speaking through grit teeth. Amami feels his lips curl into a small, albeit tired smile, listening to them go back and forth. This apartment must be a fun place for the two of them to live, if they’re always bickering like this. It’s amusing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pushes down the blanket slightly, the wet rag along with it, to pull up his shirt and look at the job Ouma did on his side. Obviously, he can’t actually see it, but… it looks tidy. Ouma must have been really careful with it. He glances up at the man, a question in his eyes that he hopes is obvious; he could just ask, of course, but there’s something… inherently vulnerable, in admitting to another person that you wouldn’t have expected them to do something kind for you, and Amami wouldn’t want to broach that; much less with a stranger.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Amami-chan did such a bad job on himself, he totes would’ve bled out if I hadn’t helped, y’know.” Ouma sighs. “Not like I care or anything, but Momota-chan is an ugly crier, and I didn’t wanna be liable. You can actually be charged for not helping out when you were supposed to here, y’know?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Amami smiles slightly. “Only when you have the responsibility to do so, like being a paramedic or a fire fighter. If you’re a regular college student, you probably could’ve gotten away with letting me die.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You underestimate how annoying Momota-chan is when he cries, and also assume I’m a regular college student.” Ouma bounces around the coffee table and into an armchair, throwing his arms behind his head. “And y’know, when Momota-chan gets sad, he starts spraying his terrible body spray all over the place to make everyone suffer as much as he is! It’s aaawwwwful and I couldn’t endure it. Your stitches being well done are a small price to pay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do not do that!” Momota insists, coming into the living room with a tray. He rests it down on the coffee table, but picks up one of the bowls on it and holds it out to Amami. It is, indeed, chicken soup, though there are ramen noodles in it as well. Amami thinks that Momota must’ve cracked open a can of Campbell’s and added some instant ramen to it. It smells good enough, though, so he really can’t complain. The bowl is warm when he takes it into his hands, but not too hot. “Eat up, yeah? You lost a lot of blood.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Amami looks between the bowl and Momota, whose eyes take on a golden glow in the lighting, all soft edges and smile lines, his hands large and steady, and feels a lump forming in his throat, which is silly. It’s just… Amami can’t remember the last time somebody did something like this for him, genuinely, just… for the sake of helping them. There’s no promise of compensation, here. It didn’t seem like Momota recognised him in the convenience store. And Ouma, despite knowing who he is, really doesn’t seem to care, grabbing a piece of bread from the tray and sticking it into his mouth, nibbling like a child.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re getting crumbs all over my chair!” Momota protests.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t see your name on it,” Ouma retorts, through a mouthful of bread. Momota groans, loud.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s still my chair! Move your ass! Your chair is right there!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huuuuh? Would Momota-chan really force me to relocate?” Ouma’s eyes widen and well with tears for the third time tonight. “That’s so mean! Why won’t Momota-chan go sit with Amami-chan since he was talking about how he thinks he’s so pretty!”</span>
  <span></span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Momota’s face flushes, and it occurs to Amami (who is starting to grin, feeling something warm bloom in his chest) that </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>one might not have been a lie. “You little--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nishishi! You’d think Momota-chan would’ve learned to hide his buttons by now,” Ouma sighs, and looks over at Amami, his eyebrows raising slightly. “It’s sooo boring, y’know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Actually, Amami feels like… Ouma doesn’t find it boring at all, or else he would’ve quit with the aforementioned button pushing a long time ago. Still, he gives Ouma an exaggerated sympathetic look, rearranging his chopsticks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Momota’s eyes have returned to Amami, his brows knitting together. “Are we being too loud, Amami? We can tone it down if you want. You seem pretty beat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no,” Amami shakes his head. “I like the noise, actually. It’s been a while since I’ve been somewhere so lively in such a nice way. And you two are amusing to watch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, watching me get poked at amuses you?” Momota huffs, but he still grabs his own bowl and gestures for Amami to budge over, so he folds his legs and allows the man to sit on the other end of the couch. Even from here, he can feel the warmth radiating off of him. It’s… comforting. Everything about this is comforting, the soup, the apartment, the way that Momota and Ouma go back and forth like they’ve been doing it all their lives.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s… like having a home again, actually. And that’s a dangerous, dangerous feeling, especially because this is in no way Amami’s home to intrude upon, but even so, when Momota eventually asks him to speak a little about himself, he… does.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you're welcome to interpret the oumota relationship here however you'd like</p></blockquote></div></div>
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